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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/ripvanwinklelege00irvi_0 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  yea-  1S60, 

Bv  HENRY  L.  HINTON, 

In  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  Distrift  Court  of  the  Umtrd  =>  at  a for  the 
So,  them  Distridt  of  New  York 


Sakony  & Co.,  1»moto., 


680  Broadway 


A LEGEND 


OF  Til li 


K A AT SKILL  MOUNTAINS. 


BY 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS 
BY'  EMINENT  ARTISTS. 


NEW  YORK: 

G.  F.  PUTNAM  AND  SON,  6G1  Broadway. 

Opposite  Bond  Street. 

1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S63, 

By  G.  1*.  PUTNAM, 

In  the  Clerk's  Otlice  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District 

of  New  York. 


CA.VtIOtIUOK  : PRINTED  II Y 11.  0.  HOUGHTON  AN!)  COMPANY 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Jrom  (Original  Resigns. 

ENGRAVED  OX  WOOD  BY  MESSRS.  RICHARDSON  & COX. 


1.  PORTRAIT  OF  RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 

ARTIST. 

I'AGF, 
. FRONT. 

2.  RIP’S  VISION  .... 

llOPPIN  . 

7 

3.  VIEW  OF  THE  KAATS KILLS 

. Parsons 

9 

4.  RIP  AND  TIIE  CHILDREN 

i/ARLEY  . 

. II 

5.  THE  LECTURE  ... 

. 

14 

6.  TIIE  POLITICIANS  . 

“ . 

. 15 

7.  RIP  AND  THE  DOG  .... 

. 

23 

8.  TIIE  STOP. A' 

“ . 

. 30 

9.  KAATSKILL  FALLS 

Wm.  IIart  . 

32 

10.  KAATSKILL  LAKE 

. 

. 33 

11.  OLD  TIME 

. llOPPIN 

34 

A POSTHUMOUS  WRITING  OF  THEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER. 

[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New  York,  who  was  very  curious 
in  the  Dutch  history  of  the  province,  and  the  manners  of  the  descend- 
ants from  its  primitive  settlers.  His  historical  researches,  however,  did 
not  lie  so  much  among  books  as  among  men ; for  the  former  are  lamen- 
tably scanty  on  his  favorite  topics ; whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers, 


G 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


and  still  more  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable  to 
true  history.  Whenever,  therefore,  he  happened  upon  a genuine  Dutch 
family,  snuglv  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farm-house,  under  a spreading 
sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a little  clasped  volume  of  black-letter, 
and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of  a book-worm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a history  of  the  province  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  published  some  years 
since.  There  have  been  various  opinions  as  to  the  literary  character 
of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  is  not  a whit  better  than  it  should 
be.  Its  chief  merit  is  its  scrupulous  accuracy,  which  indeed  was  a little 
questioned,  on  its  first  appearance,  but  has  since  been  completely  estab- 
lished ; and  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a book 
of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  work,  and 
now  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much  harm  to  his  memory 
to  say,  that  Ins  time  might  have  been  much  better  employed  in  weight- 
ier labors,  lie,  however,  was  apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way;  and 
though  it  did  now  and  then  kick  up  the  dust  a little  in  the  eyes  of  his 
neighbors,  and  grieve  the  spirit  of  some  friends,  for  whom  he  felt  the 
truest  deference  and  affection ; yet  his  errors  and  follies  are  remeirtbered 
“ more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger?”  and  it  begins  to  be  suspected  that  he 
never  intended  to  injure  or  offend.  But  however  his  memory  may  be 
appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still  held  dear  by  many  folk,  whose  good 
oninion  is  well  worth  having ; particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers, 
who  have  gone  so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  their  new- year  cakes; 
and  have  thus  given  him  a chance  for  immortality,  almost  equal  to  the 
being  stamped  on  a Waterloo  Medal,  or  a Queen  Anne’s  Farthing.] 


i 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


IT7HOEVER  lias  made  a voyage  up  the  Hudson  must  remem- 
W per  the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a dismembered 
0 ranch  of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to 
die  west  of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a noble  height,  and  lording 
it  over  the  surrounding  country.  Every  change  ol  season,  every 
change  of  weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some 
change  in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains,  and 


8 


TIIE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


they  are  regarded  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 
clear  evening  sky , but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape is  cloudless,  they  will  gather  a hood  of  gray  vapors  about 
their  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  will 
glow  and  light  up  like  a crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may  have 
descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a village,  whose 
shingle-roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of 
the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  land- 
scape. It  is  a little  village,  of  great  antiquity,  having  been 
founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early  times  of 
the  province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the 
good  Peter  Stuyvesant,  (may  he  rest  in  peace  !)  and  there  were 
some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a few 
years,  built  of  small  yellow  bricks  brought  from  Holland,  hav- 
ing latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with  weather- 
cocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses  (which, 
to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather- 
beaten), there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was 
yet  a province  of  Great  Britain,  a simple  good-natured  fellow, 
of  the  name 'of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a descendant  of  the 
Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  Fort 
Christina.  He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial 
character  of  his  ancestors.  I have  observed  that  he  was  a sim- 
ple good-natured  man ; he  was,  moreover,  a kind  neighbor,  and 
an  obedient  hen-pecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter  circum- 
stance might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which  gained  him 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


0 


such  universal  popularity ; for  those  men  are  most  apt  to  be 
obsequious  and  conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the  disci- 
pline of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are  ren- 
dered pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic 
tribulation,  and  a curtain  lecture  is  worth  all  the  sermons  in 
the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffer- 
ing. A termagant  wife  may,  therefore,  in  some  respects,  be 
considered  a tolerable  blessing;  and  if  so,  Rip  Yan  Winkle 
was  thrice  blessed. 


Certain  it  is,  that  he  was  a great  favorite  among  all  the  good 
wives  of  the  village,  who,  as  usual  with  the  amiable  sex,  took 
bis  part  in  all  family  squabbles ; and  never  failed,  whenever 
they  talked  those  matters  over  in  their  evening  gossipings,  to  lav 


10 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


all  the  blame  on  Dame  Van  Winkle.  The  children  of  the  vil- 
lage, too,  would  shout  with  joy  whenever  he  approached.  lie 
assisted  at  their  sports,  made  their  playthings,  taught  them  to 
fly  kites  and  shoot  marbles,  and  told  them  long  stories  of  ghosts, 
witches,  and  Indians.  Whenever  he  went  dodging  about  the 
village,  he  was  surrounded  by  a troop  of  them,  hanging  on  his 
skirts,  clambering  on  Ids  back,  and  playing  a thousand  tricks 
on  him  with  impunity;  and  not  a dog  would  bark  at  him 
throughout  the  neighborhood. 

The  great  error  in  Rip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  profitable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from 
the  want  of  assiduity  or  perseverance  ; for  he  would  sit  on  a wet 
rock,  with  a rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a Tartar's  lance,  and  fish 
all  day  without  a murmur,  even  though  he  should  not  be  en- 
couraged by  a single  nibble.  He  would  carry  a fowling-piece 
on  his  shoulder  for  hours  together,  trudging  through  woods  and 
swamps,  and  up  hill  and  down  dale,  to  shoot  a few  squirrels  or 
wild  pigeons.  He  would  never  refuse  to  assist  a neighbor  even 
in  the  roughest  toil,  and  was  a foremost  man  at  all  country 
frolics  for  husking  Indian  corn,  or  building  stone-fences ; the 
women  of  the  village,  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 
errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  their  less  obliging 
husbands  would  not  do  for  them.  In  a word,  Rip  was  ready  to 
attend  to  anybody’s  business  but  his  own ; but  as  to  doing 
family  duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  im- 
possible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  no  use  to  work  on  his  farm  ; it 
was  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  coun- 
try : every  thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong,  in 
spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces;  his 
cow  would  either  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages ; weeds 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


11 


were  sure  to  grow  quicker  in  his  fields  than  anywhere  else  ; 
the  rain  always  made  a point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had  some 
out-door  work  to  do  ; so  that  though  his  patrimonial  estate  had 
dwindled  away  under  his  management,  acre  by  acre,  until  there 
was  little  more  left  than  a mere  patch  of  Indian  corn  and  potatoes, 
yet  it  was  the  worst-conditioned  farm  in  the  neighborhood. 

His  children,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  belonged 
to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own  likeness, 
promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of  his  father. 
He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a colt  at  his  mother’s  heels, 
equipped  in  a pair  of  his  father’s  cast-off  galligaskins,  which  he 
had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as  a fine  lady  does  her 
train  in  bad  weather. 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals, 
of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat 
white  bread  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought 
or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a penny  than  work  for  a 
pound.  If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in 
perfect  contentment ; but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  in 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he  was 
bringing  on  his  family.  Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue 
was  incessantly  going,  and  every  thing  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to 
produce  a torrent  of  household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way 
of  replying  to  all  lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use, 
had  grown  into  a habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his 
head,  cast  up  his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  always 
provoked  a fresh  volley  from  his  wife ; so  that  he  was  fain  to 
draw  off  his  forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house — the 
only  side  which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a hen-pecked  husband. 

Rip’s  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was  as 
much  hen-pecked  as  his  master ; for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regard- 


TUK  SKETCH  300K. 


12 


cd  them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf 
with  an  evil  eye,  as  the  cause  of  his  master’s  going  so  often 
astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable 
dog,  he  was  as  courageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods 
— but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-be- 
setting  terrors  of  a woman’s  tongue?  The  moment  Wolf  enter- 
ed the  house  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  drooped  to  the  ground  or 
curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a gallows  air 
casting  many  a sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at 
the  least  flourish  of  a broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the 
door  with  yelping  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Kip  Van  Winkle  as  years 
of  matrimony  rolled  on ; a tart  temper  never  mellows  with  age, 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


13 

and  a sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edged  tool  that  grows  keener 
with  constant  use.  For  a long  while  he  used  to  console  himself, 
when  driven  from  home,  by  frequenting  a kind  of  perpetual 
club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  other  idle  personages  of  the 
village  ; which  held  its  sessions  on  a bench  before  a small  inn, 
designated  by  a rubicund  portrait  of  His  Majesty  George  the 


Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  in  the  shade  through  a long,  lazy 
summer’s  day,  talking  listlessly  over  village  gossip,  or  telling 
endless  sleepy  stories  about  nothing.  But  it  would  have  been 
worth  any  statesman’s  money  to  have  heard  the  profound  discus- 
sions that  sometimes  took  place  when  by  chance  an  old  news- 
paper fell  into  their  hands  from  some  passing  traveller.  How 


14 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


solemnly  they  would  listen  to  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  by 
Derrick  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  a dapper,  learned  little 
man,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in 
the  dictionary ; and  how  sagely  they  would  deliberate  upon 
public  events  some  months  after  they  had  taken  place. 

The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Yedder,  a patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the 
inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till 
night,  just  moving  sufficiently  to  avoid  the  sun  and  keep  in  the 
shade  of  a large  tree  ; so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the  hour 
by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a sun-dial.  It  is  true, 
he  was  rarely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  incessantly. 
His  adherents,  however,  (for  every  great  man  has  his  adherents), 
perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gather  his  opinions. 
"When  anything  that  was  read  or  related  displeased  him,  he  was 
observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently,  and  to  send  forth  short, 
frequent,  and  angry  puffs , but  when  pleased,  he  would  inhale 
the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and  emit  it  in  light  and  placid 
clouds;  and  sometimes,  taking  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about  his  nose,  would  gravely 
nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect  approbation. 

From  even  this  stronghold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  termagant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage  and  call  the  members 
all  to  naught;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Yedder 
himself,  sacred  from  the  daring  tongue  of  this  terrible  virago, 
who  charged  him  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 
habits  of  idleness. 

Poor  Rip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair ; and  his  only 
alternative,  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor  of 
his  wife,  was  to  take  gun  in  hand  and  stroll  away  into  the 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE 


15 


woods.  Here  lie  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the  foot  of  a 
tree,  and  share  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  AY olf,  with  whom 
he  sympathized  as  a fellow-sufferer  in  persecution.  “ Poor 
Wolf,”  he  would  say,  “ thy  mistress  leads  thee  a dog’s  life  of  it ; 
but  never  mind,  my  lad,  whilst  I live  thou  shalt  never  want  a 
friend  to  stand  by  thee!”  Wolf  would  wag  his  tail,  look  wist- 
fully in  his  master’s  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel  pity  I verily  be- 
lieve he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his  heart. 

In  a long  ramble  of  the  kind  on  a fine  autumnal  day,  Rip  had 
unconsciously  scrambled  to  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the 
Kaatskill  mountains.  lie  was  after  his  favorite  sport  of  squirrel 
shooting,  and  the  still  solitudes  had  echoed  and  re-echoed  with 
the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  he  threw  himself, 
late  in  the  afternoon,  on  a green  knoll,  covered  with  mountain 
herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a precipice.  F rom  an  open- 
ing between  the  trees  he  could  overlook  all  the  lower  country 
for  many  a mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a distance  the 
lordly  Hudson,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its  silent  but  ma- 
jestic course,  with  the  reflection  of  a purple  cloud,  or  the  sail  of 
a lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its  glassy  bosom,  and 
at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a deep  mountain  glen, 
wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments  from 
the  impending  cliffs,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this 
scene  ; evening  was  gradually  advancing  ; the  mountains  began 
to  throw  their  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys  ; he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village,  and  he 
heaved  a heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the  ter- 
rors of  Dame  Van  A V inkle. 

As  he  was  about  to  descend,  he  heard  a voice  from  a distance 


16 


THE  SKETCH  HOOK 


hallooing,  “Rip  Van  Winkle  I Rip  Van  Winkle!’  lie  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a crow  winging  its  solitary 
flight  across  the  mountain.  lie  thought  his  fancy  must  have 
deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  descend,  when  he  heard  the 
same  cry  ring  through  the  still  evening  air:  “ Rip  Van  Winkle  ! 
Rip  Van  Winkle !" — at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his 
back,  and  giving  a low  growl,  skulked  to  his  master’s  side,  look- 
ing fearfully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a vague  appre- 
hension stealing  over  him;  he  looked  anxiously  in  the  same 
direction,  and  perceived  a strange  figure  slowly  toiling  up  the 
rocks,  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  something  he  carried  on 
his  back.  lie  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being  in  this 
lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to  be  some  one 
of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he  hastened  down 
to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singu- 
larity of  the  stranger’s  appearance,  lie  was  a short,  square-built 
old  fellow,  with  thick  bushy  hair,  and  a grizzled  beard,  nis 
dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion — a cloth  jerkin  strap- 
ped round  the  waist — several  pairs  of  breeches,  the  outer  one  of 
ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the  sides 
and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a stout  keg, 
that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip  to  approach 
and  assist  him  with  the  load.  Though  rather  shy  and  distrust- 
ful of  this  new  acquaintance,  Rip  complied  with  his  usual  alac- 
rity ; and  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they  clambered  up  a 
narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a mountain  torrent.  As 
they  ascended,  Rip  every  now  and  then  heard  long  rolling  peals, 
like  distant  thunder,  that  seemed  to  issue  out  of  a deep  ravine, 
or  rather  cleft,  between  lofty  rocks,  toward  which  their  rugged 
path  conducted.  He  paused  for  an  instant,  but  supposing  it  to 


Kll*  VAN  WINKLE. 


17 


be  the  muttering  of  one  of  these  transient  thunder-showers 
which  often  take  place  in  mountain  heights,  he  proceeded.  Pass- 
ing through  the  ravine,  they  came  to  a hollow,  like  a small  am- 
phitheatre, surrounded  by  perpendicular  precipices,  over  the 
brinks  of  which  impending  trees  shot  their  branches,  so  that  you 
only  caught  glimpses  of  the  azure  sky  and  the  bright  evening 
cloud.  During  the  whole  time,  Rip  and  his  companion  had 
labored  on  in  silence ; for  though  the  former  marvelled  greatly 
what  could  be  the  object  of  carrying  a keg  of  liquor  up  this 
wild  mountain,  yet  there  was  something  strange  and  incompre- 
hensible about  the  unknown,  that  inspired  awe  and  checked 
familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a com- 
pany of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a quaint  outlandish  fashion ; some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and  most 
of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that  of 
the  guide’s.  Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar  ; one  had  a large 
beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ; the  face  of  another 
seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted  by  a 
white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a little  red  cock’s  tail.  They 
all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There  was  one 
who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a stout  old  gentle- 
man, with  a weather-beaten  countenance  ; he  wore  a laced  doub- 
let, broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and  feather,  red 
stockings,  and  high-heeled  shoes,  with  roses  in  them.  The 
whole  group  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old  Flemish 
painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  village  par- 
son, and  which  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  at  the  time 
of  the  settlement. 

9 


18 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


What  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip  was,  that  though  these 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained 
the  gravest  face,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal, 
the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed. 
Nothing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  whenever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the 
mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 
desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed, 
statue-like  gaze,  and  such  strange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  counte- 
nances, that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  his  knees  smote 
together.  Ilis  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg 
into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com- 
pany. He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling;  they  quaffed  the 
liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees  Rip’s  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  bever- 
age, which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent  Hol- 
lands. He  was  naturally  a thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon  tempted 
to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another ; and  he 
reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often  that  at  length  his 
senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  his  head 
gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a deep  sleep. 

On  w'aking,  he  found  himself  on  the  green  knoll  whence  he 
had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.  He  rubbed  his  eyes — 
it  was  a bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and 
twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft, 
and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  “Surely,”  thought 
Rip,  “I  have  not  slept  here  all  night.”  He  recalled  the  occur- 
rences before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  a keg  of 
liquor — the  mountain  ravine — the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks 


V*  , . • 

*.C  ’-j  * . >f'.  ■ ;/  ■' J)  SSCSty  -y  ■ i> 

Sakony  & Co.,  Photo., 


K1I*  VAN  WINKLE. 


19 

— the  woebegone  party  at  nine-pins — the  flagon — “Oh!  that 
flagon  ! that  wicked  flagon  !”  thought  Rip — “ what  excuse  shall 
I make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle?” 

He  looked  round  for  liis  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean,  well- 
oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  firelock  lying  by  him,  the 
barrel  incrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off',  and  the  stock 
worm-eaten.  lie  now  suspected  that  the -grave  roysters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a trick  upon  him,  and  having  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared, 
but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a squirrel  or  partridge, 
lie  whistled  after  him  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain  ; the 
echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be  seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening’s  gam- 
bol, and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his  dog  and 
gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the  joints, 
and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  “ These  mountain  beds  do 
not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  “and  if  this  frolic  should  lay 
me  up  with  a fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I shall  have  a blessed  time 
with  Dame  Van  Winkle.”  With  some  difficulty  lie  got  down 
into  the  glen  : he  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion had  ascended  the  preceding  evening;  but  to  his  astonish- 
ment a mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it,  leaping  from 
rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling  murmurs.  He, 
however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides,  working  his  toil- 
some way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras,  and  witch-hazel, 
and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the  wild  grape-vines 
that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to  tree,  and  spread  a 
kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening 
remained.  The  rocks  presented  a high  impenetrable  wall,  over 


•20 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a sheet  of  feathery  foam, 
and  fell  into  a broad  dee])  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of  the 
surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to  a 
stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog;  he  was  only 
answered  by  the  cawing  of  a flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting  high 
in  air  about  a dry  tree  that  overhung  a sunny  precipice ; and 
who,  secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and  scoff  at 
the  poor  man’s  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done  ? the  morn- 
ing was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want  of  his 
breakfast.  lie  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun  ; he  dreaded 
to  meet  his  wife  ; but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among  the  moun- 
tains. He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  firelock,  and 
with  a heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxietv,  turned  his  steps  home- 
ward. 

As  he  approached  the  village  he  met  a number  of  people,  but 
none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him.  for  he  had 
thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country 
round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a different  fashion  from  that  to 
which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him, 
invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this 
gesture  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to  his 
astonishment,  lie  found  his  beard  had  grown  a foot  long  ! 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  pointing 
at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he  recog- 
nized for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed.  The 
very  village  was  altered ; it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared. 
Strange  names  were  over  the  doors — strange  faces  at  the  windows 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


21 


— every  thing  was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him  ; he  be- 
gan to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him  were 
not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which  lie 
had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains— there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a distance — there  was 
every  hill  and  dale  precisely  as  it  had  always  been — Rip  was 
sorely  perplexed — “ That  flagon  last  night,”  thought  he.  “ has 
addled  my  poor  head  sadly  I” 


It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his  own 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  He 
found  the  house  gone  to  decay — the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows 


TJIE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


■>■> 

shattered,  and  tlie  doors  off  the  hinges.  A half-starved  dog 
that  looked  like  Wolf  was  skulking  about  it.  Rip  called  him 
by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  on. 
This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed — “ My  very  dog,”  sighed  poor 
Rip,  “ has  forgotten  me!” 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  Dame  Van 
A\  inkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn, 
and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all  his 
connubial  fears — he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children — the 
lonely  chambers  rang  for  a moment  with  his  voice,  and  then  all 
again  was  silence. 

lie  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the  vil- 
lage inn — but  it  too  was  gone.  A large  rickety  wooden  build- 
ing stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some  of  them 
broken  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the 
door  was  painted,  “The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle.” 
Instead  of  the  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch 
inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a tall,  naked  pole,  with  some- 
thing on  the  top  that  looked  like  a red  night-cap,  and  from  it 
was  fluttering  a llag,  on  which  was  a singular  assemblage  of  stars 
and  stripes — all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible.  He  rec- 
ognised on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  un- 
der which  he  had  smoked  so  many  a peaceful  pipe ; but  even 
this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  The  red  coat  was  changed 
for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a sword  was  held  in  the  hand  instead 
of  a sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  with  a cocked  hat,  and  un- 
derneath was  painted  in  large  characters,  General  Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but  none 
that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.  There  was  a busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about 
it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy  tranquillity. 


* 


r 


Saxony  A Co.,  Photo.,  680  Broadway. 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


23 


lie  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Tedder,  with  his  broad 
lace,  double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco 
smoke  instead  of  idle  speeches;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  school- 
master, doling  forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.  In 
place  of  these,  a lean,  biliousdooking  fellow,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  handbills,  was  haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of 
citizens — elections — members  of  Congress — liberty — Bunker’s 
Hill — heroes  of  seventy-six— and  other  words,  which  were  a 
perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his  rusty 
fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women  and 
children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern 
politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eyeing  him  from  head 
to  foot  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and, 
drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired  l'  on  which  side  he  voted?” 
Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short  but  busy  little 
fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in 
his  ear,  “whether  he  was  Federal  or  Democrat?"  Rip  was 
equally  at  a loss  to  comprehend  the  question  ; when  a knowing, 
self-important  old  gentleman  in  a sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them  to  the  right  and  left  with 
his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting  himself  before  Van  Winkle, 
with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  his  keen 
eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  were,  into  his  very  soul, 
demanded,  in  an  austere  tone,  “ what  brought  him  to  the  election 
with  a gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether 
he  meant  to  breed  a riot  in  the  village?”  “Alas  ! gentlemen,” 
cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  “ I am  a poor  quiet  man,  a na- 
tive of  the  place,  and  a loyal  subject  of  the  king,  God  bless  him !" 

Here  a general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — “ A tory  ! 
a tory  ! a spy  ! a refugee  ! hustle  him  ! away  with  him  !”  It  was 


24 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked 
hat  restored  order ; and,  having  assumed  a tenfold  austerity  of 
brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit,  what  lie  came 
there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking  ? The  poor  man  humbly 
assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in 
search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  about  the 
tavern. 

“ Well,  who  are  they?  Name  them."1 

Rip  bethought  himself  a moment,  and  inquired,  “ Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?” 

There  was  a silence  for  a little  while,  when  an  old  man  re- 
plied, in  a thin,  piping  voice,  “Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is 
dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years ! There  was  a wooden 
tombstone  in  the  churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him, 
but  that’s  rotten  and  gone  too.” 

“ Where’s  Brom  Butcher  ?” 

“ Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war ; 
some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point — others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  a squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony’s  Nose. 
I don’t  know — he  never  came  back  again." 

“Where’s  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

“ He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a great  militia  general,  and 
is  now  in  Congress." 

Rip’s  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his 
home  and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous 
lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand : 
war — Congress — Stony  Point ; — he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after 
any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  “Does  nobody  here 
know  Rip  Van  Winkle? 

“ Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle !”  exclaimed  two  or  three,  “ Oh. 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


25 

to  be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the 
tree.” 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a precise  counterpart  of  himself,  as 
he  went  up  the  mountain : apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as 
ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.  He 
doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  an- 
other man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in  the 
cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name  ? 

41  God  knows,'1  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end;  “I’m  not  my- 
self— I’m  somebody  else — that’s  me  yonder — no — that’s  some- 
body else  got  into  my  shoes — I was  myself  last  night,  but  1 fell 
asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my  gun,  and  every 
thing’s  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I can’t  tell  what’s  my 
name,  or  who  I am!” 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod,  wink 
significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There 
was  a whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old 
fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipi- 
tation. At  this  critical  moment  a fresh,  comely  woman  pressed 
through  the  throng  to  get 'a  peep  at  the  gray -bearded  man.  She 
had  a chubby  child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks, 
began  to  cry.  “Hush,  Rip,”  cried  she,  “hush,  you  little  fool ; 
the  old  man  won’t  hurt  you.”  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of 
the  mother,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a train  of  recol- 
lections in  his  mind.  “What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman?” 
asked  he. 

“Judith  Gardenier.” 

“ And  your  father's  name  ?” 

“ Ah  ! poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it’s  twen- 
ty years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never 
10 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


26 

has  been  heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  without  him  ; hut 
whether  lie  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  no- 
body can  tell.  I was  then  but  a little  girl.” 

Kip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask ; but  he  put  it  with  a 
faltering  voice : 

“Where’s  your  mother?” 

“Oh,  she  too  had  died  but  a short  time  since;  she  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a fit  of  passion  at  a New  England  peddler.” 

There  was  a drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer,  lie  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  “I  am  your  father !” 
cried  he — “Young  Kip  Van  Winkle  once — old  Kip  Van  Winkle 
now  ! Does  nobody  know  poor  Kip  Van  Winkle  ?" 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from  - 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering under 
it  in  his  face  for  a moment,  exclaimed,  “Sure  enough!  it  is  Kip 
Van  Winkle — it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again,  old  neigh- 
bor. Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long  years  ?” 

Kip’s  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  long  years  had 
been  to  him  but  as  one  night.  The  neighbors  stared  when  they 
heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put  their 
tongues  in  their  cheeks:  and  the  self-important  man  in  the 
cocked  hat,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to  the 
field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook  his 
head — upon  which  there  was  a general  shaking  of  the  head 
throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old  Peter 
Vanderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  lie 
was  a descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one 
of  the  earliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most 
ancient  inhabitant  of  the  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the  won- 


. 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


derful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  lie  recol- 
lected Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most  sat- 
isfactory manner,  lie  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a fact, 
handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the  Kaatskill 
mountains  had  always  been  haunted  by  strange  beings.  That 
it  was  affirmed  that  the  great  Hendrick  Hudson,  the  first  discov- 
erer of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a kind  of  'vigil  there  every 
twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half-moon  ; being  permitted 
in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enterprise,  and  keep  a 
guardian  eye  upon  the  river,  and  the  great  city  called  by  his 
name.  That  his  father  had  once  seen  them  in  their  old  Dutch 
dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  a hollow  of  the  mountain  ; and 
that  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer  afternoon,  the  sound  of 
their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of  thunder. 

To  make  a long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and  re- 
turned to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip’s 
daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a snug,  well- 
furnished  house,  and  a stout,  cheery  farmer  for  a husband,  whom 
Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon 
his  back.  As  to  Rip’s  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of  him- 
self, seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to  work  on 
the  farm  ; but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  attend  to  any 
thing  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ; he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the 
wear  and  tear  of  time  ; and  preferred  making  friends  among  the 
rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 

Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that  hap- 
py age  when  a man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took  his  place 
once  more  on  the  bench  at  the  inn  door,  and  was  reverenced  as 
one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a chronicle  of  the  old 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


28 


times  “before  the  war.”  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  get 
into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could  be  made  to  comprehend 
the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place  during  his  torpor.  How 
that  there  had  been  a revolutionary  war — that  the  country  had 
thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England — and  that,  instead  of  being 
a subject  of  his  Majesty  George  the  Third,  he  was  now  a free 
citizen  of  the  United  States.  Rip,  in  fact,  was  no  politician  ; the 
changes  of  states  and  empires  made  but  little  impression  on 
him  ; but  there  was  one  species  of  despotism  under  which  he 
had  long  groaned,  and  that  was — petticoat  government.  Hap- 
pily that  was  at  an  end  ; he  had  got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  and  could  go  in  and  out  whenever  he  pleased,  with- 
out dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her 


RIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


29 


name  was  mentioned,  however,  lie  shook  his  head,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes ; which  might  pass  either  for  an 
expression  of  resignation  to  his  fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at  Mr. 
Doolittle’s  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some 
points  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was,  doubtless,  owing  to  his 
having  so  recently  awaked.  It  at  last  settled  down  precisely  to 
the  tale  I have  related,  and  not  a man,  woman,  or  child  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  knew  it  by  heart.  Some  always  pretended 
to  doubt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been  out  of 
his  head,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always  re- 
mained flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost 
universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day  they  never 
hear  a thunder-storm  of  a summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaats- 
kill,  but  they  say  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their 
game  of  nine-pins  ; and  it  is  a common  wish  of  all  hen-pecked 
husbands  in  the  neighbor] lood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their 
hands,  that  they  might  have  a quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle’s  flagon. 

NOTE. 

The  foregoing  Tale,  one  would  suspect,  had  been  suggested  to  Mr. 
Knickerbocker  by  a little  German  superstition  about  the  Emperor  Fred- 
erick dvr  Rothbart,  and  the  Kypphauser  mountain : the  subjoined  note, 
however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the  tale,  shows  that  it  is  an  abso- 
lute fact,  narrated  with  his  usual  fidelity: 

“ The  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  may  seem  incredible  to  many,  but 
nevertheless  I give  it  my  full  belief,  for  I know  the  vicinity  of  our  old 
Dutch  settlements  to  have  been  very  subject  to  marvellous  events  and 
appearances.  Indeed,  I have  heard  many  stranger  stories  than  this,  in 
the  villages  along  the  Hudson  ; all  of  which  were  too  well  authenticated 
to  admit  of  a doubt.  I have  even  talked  with  Rip  Van  Winkle  myself, 


30 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


who,  when  I last  saw  him,  was  a very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  per- 
fectly rational  and  consistent  on  every  other  point,  that  I think  no 
conscientious  person  could  refuse  to  take  this  into  the  bargain ; nay,  T 
have  seen  a certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a country  justice  and 
signed  with  a cross,  in  the  justice’s  own  handwriting.  The  story,  there- 
fore, is  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

“D.  K.” 


POSTSCRIPT. 

The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a memorandum-book  of  Mr. 
Knickerbocker : 


KIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


31 


The  Ivaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a region  full 
of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  them  the  abode  of  spirits,  who  in- 
fluenced the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  or  clouds  over  the  landscape, 
and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old 
squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak 
of  the  Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night,  to  open 
and  shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the 
skies,  and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  prop- 
erly propitiated,  she  would  spin  light  summer  clouds  out  of  cobwebs 
and  morning  dew,  and  send  them  oft’  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain, 
flake  after  flake,  like  flakes  of  carded  cotton,  to  float  in  the  air ; until, 
dissolved  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gentle  showers, 
causing  the  grass  to  spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an 
inch  an  hour.  If  displeased,  however,  she  would  brew  up  clouds  black 
as  ink,  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them  like  a bottle-bellied  spider  in  the 
midst  of  its  web  ; and  when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  the  vallyes  1 


In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a kind  of  Manitou 
or  Spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Catskill  Mountains, 
and  took  a mischievous  pleasure  In  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vex- 
ations upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would  assume  the  form  of  a 


32 


THE  SKETCH  BOOK. 


bear,  a panther,  or  a deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a weary  chase 
through  tangled  forests  and  among  ragged  rocks ; and  then  spring  off 
with  a loud  ho  ! ho  ! leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a beetling 
precipice  or  raging  torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  this  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a great  rock 
or  cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from  the  flowering 
vines  which  clamber  about  it,  and  the  wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its 
neighborhood,  is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the 
foot  of  it  is  a small  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water- 
snakes  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies  which  lie  on 
the  surface.  This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch 
that  the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts, 
Once  upon  a time,  however,  a hunter  who  had  lost  his  way,  penetrated 
to  the  garden  rock,  where  he  beheld  a number  of  gourds  placed  in  the 
crotches  of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in 
the  hurry  of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a great 
stream  gushed  forth,  which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down 
precipices,  where  he  was  dashed  to  pieces,  and  the  stream  made  its 
way  to  the  Hudson,  and  continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day;  being 
the  identical  stream  known  by  the  name  of  the  Kaaters-kill. 


